


live in hotels, tear out the walls

by aiIenzo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace, Forgiveness, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 23:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: It felt a bit like restoring artwork that people kept ripping their favorite patches from, selfish and uncultured, too greedy to recognize the blasphemy they committed. And Castiel would walk by at the end of every day, staring at this treasure, bold and unapologetic even when torn asunder, who waited patiently for Castiel to stitch him back up. To allow him back into the cruelty of the world.(“Pride,” he said finally, conclusively, and Castiel swallowed the shame of being so utterly transparent. Dean looked up at him. “That’s a sin, isn’t it? Even for angels?”)





	live in hotels, tear out the walls

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Life's Been Good by Joe Walsh.

The world outside the barn rolled by violently, as the world tended to do when they got involved. Gushes of wind tormented the creaky wooden paneling while rain flew in through the cracks, allowing streams of distant, faint moonlight to highlight and filter the near horizontal torrent. The storm howled, wild and uncontested by mountain ranges as it tore across the valley, picking up speed as it fed itself on the open spaces of east Texas, unperturbed and uncaring.

Dean scowled at the unholy sound of the roof being torn asunder, and rubbed his forearm in a vicious attempt to get warm. The temperature had dropped considerably since they’d been holed up, and their lack of motion hadn’t helped lessen the chill from the late October storm. Castiel sat very still next to him, all celestial indifference wrapped neatly in a wistful little package as he studied the shaking wood with a small tilt of his head.

“I hope Sam is faring better than us,” he commented lightly, barely shifting the straw around him.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, cozied up with his laptop in a three-star hotel while we wait for this goddamn barn to collapse on top of us? He’s peachy, Cas, I guarantee it.”

Years of companionship had given Castiel more than enough practice learning how to combat Dean Winchester’s volatile moods (and his tapered emotions as an angel kept him from swallowing them too bitterly). But slowly, over that vast stretch of time, inattention and dismissiveness had been replaced with learned habits - an eye roll, a dash of sarcasm. Things an angel had no business adopting. Things that had earned Dean’s approval, and broken down some of the earlier barriers of their communication.

Now, he even found it difficult to restrain himself in normal social situations, as though his personal mantra had been replaced with a sacrilegious _What Would Dean Do?_  

“The girl was supposed to be here over an hour ago,” Dean continued, taking Cas’ commiserating silence as an invitation to further complain. “And we’re waiting in the _loft_ in some old, shitty barn in the outskirts of Lindale for a contact that may or may not be a witch, why _wouldn’t_ there be a storm, right?”

Castiel cast him a look, studying the lines in Dean’s face, the small bracket his mouth made that told of a repressed, simmering upset. This was a long-suffering annoyance, and the storm had only been the final straw in a miserable day of challenges.

“I’m sorry about your food, Dean,” Castiel responded heavily, remembering the plate of barbecue Dean had fumbled in their urgency to answer Sam’s call, already halfway in the Impala.

Dean’s frown only deepened, and Cas knew he had guessed the main source of Dean’s distress correctly.

“ _Two_ plates,” Dean growled out, intent on rewarding himself for his own suffering, pointing his finger at Cas as if the angel would dare defy him. “Two plates next time, after we’re done with this, and Sam doesn’t get _any._ ”

“Two plates,” Castiel agreed, glancing upwards again as the roof shook under a new torrent of rain. “Besides, the storm seems to be peaking. I expect it’ll die out within the hour.”

“Good,” Dean replied, leaning back to rest his weight on his hands. “Because I-- ah, _shit!”_

Castiel’s hand was immediately at his blade, but sensing no other presence in the room, he let the hover falter, feeling foolish. His time spent with humans had made him more reactive than he used to be, particularly around Dean.

The man beside him held out his hand, glowering as he revealed the open, bloody slice running across the meaty part where his thumb met palm. An exposed, rusty nail near the base of the wall had been the culprit. Dean dropped the murderous look to one that seemed… mildly humbled.

“Cas, the barn heard what I said. It’s fighting back, look.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel replied, adjusting his body to face Dean more directly. “That will get infected though, give it here.”

Without a complaint, so commonplace was it in their lives, Dean thrust his hand out for Castiel to take. Healing was a backhand skill now, a thing that many angels could do carelessly, with only a portion of their mind fixed on the task. But Castiel had always found healing to be cathartic, and he reached his grace out with full focus, stitching Dean’s skin back together not unlike how a human might weave a blanket. He corded carefully through follicles and nerves, replacing what had been damaged with nothing more or less than a true likeness, including every faded, minuscule freckle. There would be no scarring, no blemishes. Only Dean.

Something pensive crossed Dean’s face as Castiel released him, and again, Castiel worried that he had broadcast too much while trailing his grace along Dean’s skin. That some wisps of his thoughts had projected themselves into Dean’s mind, planting Castiel’s secrets like traitorous little thorns.

“Hey.” Dean paused, weighing the options of asking something that clearly wasn’t normal fare for them. It was the same internal struggle that always seemed to happen the moment Dean was reminded that Cas was infinite, a devout and holy being handcrafted by God that had watched the Heavens and Earth move and grow for millennia, and Dean had just made him heal a cut on his finger. The look of realization was always so comical.

“Let me ask you something.” The words tumbled out of Dean’s mouth quickly, like he had to power through them before he lost the nerve. “When you first brought me back, you know, from…”

He paused, discomfort alighting within him like a weakened candle, barely able to hold its existence in the vast expanse of Dean’s experiences, his trauma.

Castiel spared him. “From Hell, yes. Go on.”

Dean swallowed. “Right. You had to heal my body, when you put my soul back in. I was a gooey mess, right? Just... Why did you leave the scars that time? Well, except for the claw marks, I guess you just stitched those up, since, you know, they didn’t have time to heal. But everything else... you could’ve gave me a full-body zap and been done with it.”

The question caught Castiel off guard, like a swelling tide that had crested too suddenly, bringing with it questions Castiel himself had feared to ask. Questions he had buried at sea, ashamed of both his pride, and his weakness. Ashamed that he had been too in awe of the spectacle before him to consider the repercussions of laying a claim, and that rebuilding Dean differently felt too close to impiety.

There had been another reason, though, hadn’t there? One that he had consoled his shame with for a very long time. One that he had thoroughly convinced himself was believable.

“I feared you wouldn’t trust the body you were in if it didn’t bear the same resemblances you remembered. I wanted you to know that it was _you_ that was brought back, body and soul.”

Dean chuckled lightly, running his finger across the new, identical patch of skin on his hand as though he could still, however unconsciously, feel the traces of Cas’ grace inside of it. There was a strange pull in Castiel’s chest at the sight.

“Right. But you didn’t worry about the handprint you seared into my arm, huh?” He snickered slightly, skin awash in the harsh blues of the storm, and Castiel couldn’t look away. “Pretty hard to miss, Cas.”

Castiel shifted, hearing the wood of the loft creak underneath them in protest. That moment, choosing to leave a mark upon Dean’s body, still causes him great discomfort, and he’s yet to find a solid answer to reason his way through the decision. It was there, a pinprick of knowledge in the distance that he couldn’t quite grasp, like trying to close his hand around a beam of light. He'd had this sensation frequently when he was an angel, long before the Winchesters; slips of understanding that had evaded his touch, but not his awareness. He’d never mentioned it to his garrison, afraid of their potential for disillusion, but oftentimes he felt flawed because of it; a crack in his making, letting the lights of sin filter through.

Marking Dean had been the first thing he’d done that bore the beginnings of emotions, and to this day, he can’t pinpoint how he’d gone wrong. What had sent him veering off a course that had been so easily defined? Seeing the light of Dean’s soul, warped and shadowed by the lamentations of Hell, but glowing bright in defiance, it had called to him. Wracked with pain and burden, desperate for release, hungering for a peace it knew wouldn’t satisfy. Souls were warm, fiery and _full,_ but gripping Dean had been lightning, pure and electric, flowing through him rather than embracing him. It had settled him, calmed him in places he hadn’t realized he was restless.  

And Castiel, his blade still wet with demon blood, his own true form damaged and broken, had _earned_ the privilege of saving Dean Winchester’s soul. It was the first time in his very long life that pride had overtaken him.

Part of him had wanted Dean to know that.  

“I shouldn’t have,” he admitted finally. “I led so many angels in the charge against Hell, but I was the only one who made it to you. And your soul, Dean… I understood then, what God saw, and why I was there, and I couldn’t bring myself to completely sever that moment.” He inhaled, feeling the air expand in his vessel’s lungs, a sensation he found rather calming. “I wanted everyone who saw you to recognize the angel that raised Dean Winchester from Hell.”

His admission was met with silence, filled only by the wind whistling by as it threatened to upturn their temporary sanctuary.

“I’m sorry,” he added. “I meant no harm by it, but I understand now how it could have been...distressing to see.”

Still, Dean was silent, but the aura radiating from him was not one of anger, nor listlessness. Dean was focused, confusion and understanding seesawing for the upper hand in a battle Dean hadn’t fully realized he'd roped himself into.

“Pride,” he said finally, _conclusively,_ and Cas swallowed the shame of being so utterly transparent. Dean looked up at him. “That’s a sin, isn’t it? Even for angels?”

Castiel nodded once. “The root of most sins, the first corruption. Many Saints believed that pride is only thing preventing man from achieving the same grace as God. Pride, hubris…” He trailed off, all too aware of his own failings. “It is the definition and core of humanity.”

Castiel had never been one to avert his eyes during conversation, so strong was his intent to study, to _understand._ Even with Sam and Dean’s guidance on social cues, he still fumbled through appropriate responses, and often found himself trying to judge the factuality of a person’s words through the tells on their face. But now, the area around Dean’s boots was far more appealing than reading whatever nuances he could learn from Dean’s eyes.

“You’re ashamed of it,” Dean summarized.

Castiel opened his mouth to immediately deny it, to spare themselves an uncomfortable honesty, but he felt compelled to change the tactic. If Dean was willing to bare the questions, this entire line of discussion, then he deserved  proper answers.

“I’m ashamed of a great many things, Dean. And Naomi -- well, she claims it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve deviated from orders. But this wasn’t to halt the massacre of innocent children, or to question the devotion of my brethren to God; this was selfish. Never before had pride overtaken me in such a way. I… don’t know what caused this change.”

Dean shifted beside him, and it felt momentous in the shared gravity between them, as though Castiel could sense the perforation Dean cut out in the atmosphere around them.

“Well, that angel -- Hester, yeah? -- she did say that’s when it all started to go downhill,” Dean mused, a smirk across his lips. “The ol’ _Winchester Corruption_ and whatnot.”

Dean was struggling to put them back onto even ground. They'd never had this talk, and they wouldn’t start now, regardless of the empty feeling Cas would be left with, forever perched on the cusp of something profound.

And yet.

“Still,” the words came, almost without Castiel’s approval. He was being urged to follow through by something other than angelic sense. By something utterly human. “For what it’s worth. I’m sorry, Dean. You were different to me then -- a figurehead for my accomplishments. ... _I_ was different then.”

“Hey, you should be thanking me for the opportunity. You were a dick back then, man,” Dean argued lightly, but the words felt heavy, like Dean was skimming the shallow end, afraid there would be no solid ground to greet him if he plunged in fully. “If I had anything to do with turning you into who you are now, I won’t apologize for that. Not to you, not to anyone. And you shouldn’t be ashamed of it, either. Hell, I’m grateful.” He paused, letting his head rest against the wooden backing of the barn as he closed his eyes. “Best thing I ever saved was you, Cas.”

There was a jolt in Castiel's chest, something warm and new, threaded with the familiarity of Dean’s blunt, unapologetic honesty. The moment stretched between them, rain pounding on the roof above them like tiny daggers, bouncing and tumbling and determined to pierce through, and Castiel contemplated how, ten years previously, he had nothing but his ignorance. How the past decade had given him more than the lifetimes before it. How, only now, did things start to matter enough to _change._

Castiel could study that question for hours - for the remainder of the night, even. Dean, however, never quite shared the same otherworldly patience.

“Thanks, by the way,” he declared, holding up his hand to emphasis his focal point ( _anything_ but a continuation -- Castiel could read Dean so easily sometimes). “Would have been a shitty scar.”

“It would have been battling for space,” Castiel mused, still hung up on Dean’s admission, ignoring the filter he usually measured his words through. “You’d have two others that would intersect it, had I not healed them previously.”

“Two… wait, what?”

Dean was staring at him, head cocked and his expression twisted with concern, as though Castiel had caught him doing something unseemly, and Dean was determined to project the humiliation backwards.

This look didn’t bother him. He’d seen this forced discomfort before, and rather than try and coax Dean into speaking clearly, Castiel had to once again inhibit rolling his eyes.

“There would be two, if… here, give me.”

Without asking, he pulled Dean’s hand from where it had been hovering uselessly between them. With Dean’s palm upwards, cradled between Castiel’s own, he felt ridiculously like one of those faux psychics that prey upon the feeble-minded, those looking to find reason where there is only will.

“Here, one slice from a ritual you performed with Rowena, back in Lawton.” He ran his finger quickly down the smooth skin on the side of Dean’s palm. “And another, here, when you were blocking a Rugaru attack, and his nail sliced through all the way past your wrist.” He traced the line past the cutoff of Dean’s jacket, seeing the injury in his mind, all Dean’s states of being alive and constant in Castiel’s perfect memory.

“There are others, of course, further up inwards on your palm. Most of them self-inflicted, drawing blood for spell work. This one,” he began, his voice softened as the memory formed in his head, a bittersweet smile forming on his lips, “was from when you banished me, at Bobby Singer’s home.”

Dean’s fingers twitched in an apology that would never grace his lips. Castiel recognized it for what it was, just as he hoped Dean recognized the small press of his fingers as forgiveness, a confirmation of a needless apology. After all, Castiel had been quick to remind Dean what would happen in those defiant days of capricious self-sacrifice and abstract misery.

“A deep one here, through the middle, to combat a witch’s spell.” He paused, his finger hovering uncertainly over the natural lines of Dean’s palms. “You know, there are other places to draw blood. Not to mention that lacerations on the hands take longer to heal, considering the near constant state of movement.”

Dean grunted out something that might have been a scoff, but his pulse had quickened, his eyes locked to where Castiel’s fingers gripped him. “Yeah, well, we’ve got an angel for that, don’t we?”

Castiel was fluent enough in _Dean_ that he recognized the sentence for exactly what it was -- filler. Words that tumbled out when silence would be too deafening. Dean was uncomfortable, apprehensive -- a mouse being offered a meal through the assumed kindness of a cat -- but he hadn’t jerked away. There was privacy here, no sound of Sam’s footsteps in the bunker’s hallway, no close quarters living during a sixteen hour drive, no paper thin walls of seedy motels.

Here, Dean was something else. Here, he had nothing to prove, and he could be weak without Sam’s lingering presence, reminding Dean of his never-ending devotion to remain a fixed and solid object of protection, invulnerable to erosion. An older brother that would never falter. Here, he could be soft in a way that only Castiel was allowed, as they had _met_ at Dean’s weakest, his most vulnerable, and there was no facade to maintain in the angel’s presence, no dismissal of his need for comfort.

Here, he was just Dean, no modifiers or titles required.

“Claw marks from a werewolf all up your left arm and down your wrist,” Castiel continued, seeing the scene play out before him: Dean’s cry of pain as blood blossomed across the tattered remains of his sleeve. The glint of a knife in the dark, silver in an otherwise black and green landscape. “That one was deep, it had damaged your nerves. If I hadn’t healed you later that week, you’d have no feeling in these three fingers,” he reflected, gently tapping the skin just to watch Dean’s nerves jump in response, a clear sign of Castiel’s handiwork.

It still amazed him, to watch Dean tumble back out into the elements after suffering so much. Like he’d stepped out of the ring just long enough for Castiel to bribe him with sustenance he so desperately needed, before he threw himself fully back into the fight. It felt a bit like restoring artwork that people kept ripping their favorite patches from, selfish and uncultured, too greedy to recognize the blasphemy they committed. And Castiel would walk by at the end of every day, staring at this treasure, bold and unapologetic even when torn asunder, who waited patiently for Castiel to stitch him back up. To allow him back into the cruelty of the world.

In that, Dean was pure, and worthy of so much. Even if all Castiel could give him was a dreamless sleep and unmarred skin.

He trailed his hand up Dean’s arm, feeling the tautness of muscle beneath the layers of clothing. Muscles that had been shredded and ripped, pulled beyond their ability and stretched to the point of snapping.

“So many here. Knife wounds. Two bullets, one grazed deep, one shallow. Vampire nails down in New Orleans, an ill-tempered demon in Brookings. She gave you matching wounds on each arm.”

“Real bitch, that one,” Dean agreed, his words half swallowed by the gruff filter of his voice. Castiel chanced a look, finding Dean’s eyes glassy as he stared at the length of his arm, but it was too hard to tell if he was caught up in the past, or the present.

“You’ve dislocated your shoulder seven times. Once by me. Though, that leaves no scars, for which you should be grateful.” His hand trailed across Dean’s shoulder, fingers following the trail of damage he knew would have been there. “Abrasions, everywhere. Rubbed raw by the things you’ve been tied to, scraped by pavement. Clawed open from creatures. There is, of course, one of the scars I didn’t heal -- one that you had before I raised you.”

Dean looked confused, but in his curiosity, he had either forgotten to remind Castiel of their boundaries, or it had morphed into an unspoken intimacy. An effortless slotting of unique habits Dean had finally shelved as a new normality. Castiel kept his hand where it was; it felt right to do so.

“There’s a scar on my back?”

Castiel nodded, placing one finger on it gently over the thick, dirt-encrusted jacket. “From a toy car. Sam threw it at you when he was five, and it cut into your skin. I didn’t know you weren’t aware of it.”

Dean smiled, his eyes darting to the ground as if the memory had jogged itself free and demanded all of Dean’s senses to lock it down.

“I remember,” he said lightly. “I told him we didn’t have any more mac and cheese, that we’d have to eat sandwiches for a few days, and man, that kid was _furious,_ let me tell you. Chucked that stupid little Hot Wheel right at my head when I turned around.”

“Well, I daresay he missed,” Castiel mused, trying to keep Dean’s mood steady and elevated. He preferred Dean like this, caught in the fragile, infrequent current of a memory that didn’t hold pain. Most of Dean’s heaven revolved around Sam. The laughter in motel rooms, sneaking into a music store to let Sammy test out a drum set; even the arguments felt homely: just two boys, fighting over minuscule things without the threat of monsters and death forced upon them during every waking and restless hour.

“There are many memories like it, in your heaven. Most all of them feature Sam, at all stages of life. You feel safer when he’s near you.”

Castiel hadn’t thought out the severity of that sentence, but reasoned that Dean had already seen his own heaven, personalized and cozy, down to the last throw pillow on his mother’s couch. It shouldn’t be taboo. Still, he met Dean’s eyes reluctantly, afraid to feel the withdrawal, like his time with Dean was forever buffering, disconnected and hanging on a precipice when it mattered the most.

But Dean was still smiling at the ground, his pulse slow and steady, likely conjuring up the memories he hoped he’d find. This was always the point where Castiel would pull away, but he found himself far too reluctant to let the moment go, not when physical contact with Dean was so rare and treasured, invitingly bolstered by Dean’s sudden contentment.

So he didn't.

He moved his hand to the bend in Dean’s neck, his fingers catching on the clavicle. Hundreds of Deans flashed through him, each bloodied and hurt, the landscapes around him shifting at a nauseating pace. Trees, warehouses, hallways, the bunker.

A crypt.

“So many here,” he muttered, pressing gently into the unblemished skin on Dean’s neck. “Teeth and blades. Too many battles.”

Dean shifted into the touch, nearly unnoticeable, as though he meant to lean fully but jerked himself to a stop halfway through. His skin was warm against Castiel’s hand, a stark contrast to the cold around them. Temperature was a fascinating thing -- Castiel could feel it, could sense the bite in the air or the waves of heat, but they didn’t affect him. He remembered them being a nuisance, when he was human, but he longed for them now.

“Cas, one day, when this is all over and you’re running Heaven--”

Castiel snorted indulgently.

“--Could you do me a solid?”

Dean didn’t push Castiel’s hand away, he let it linger, and Castiel was immobile, desperate not to shatter this sacred moment, silent and still like an animal caught between fight and flight.

“Anything, Dean.”

He chose not to bring up the ludicrousness of that scenario. Heaven would never take him back. And even if they did, his days of leading were over.

He preferred teamwork over commanding, anyway.

“I know everyone’s heavens are like, memories and shit. I don’t want that. Can you pull some strings and kind of, merge mine and Sam’s heavens together? You know, like a joint thing?”

Castiel crooked his thumb to run across one of the freckles on Dean’s neck. It was a risky move, but he was rewarded with compliance.

“I’d like to say yes to you, Dean, but something tells me you might take advantage of such a deal. You’d want to merge Jessica's heaven as well, for Sam. And your parents. Perhaps Bobby, and Ellen and Jo. And then what would they demand, once the curtains have been lifted? Your one request could very well undo the entire well-functioning system Heaven has in place.”

Dean was smug with his answer, as Castiel expected.

“Well maybe some things need to change. I’m pretty good at kick-starting shit.”

“So I’ve come to learn,” Castiel agreed. He cycled through all of his memories of Dean again, all of his states of being, if only to distract himself from the reminder of Dean’s eventual demise. Of the end of the most important years of his existence, and of the family he’d come to know as his own. It left a strange, unwelcome sensation, entirely different from the pull of affection he’d been blessed with earlier.

Now, he felt gutted.

He didn’t want to think about it further. Comfort had been easy to find after a tragedy, nestled in the bunker with two vengeful brothers. They would be in pain, but there was solidarity to be found in that shared grief. Once they were gone, Castiel would have nothing to go home to. His eyes flicked back to Dean’s skin, tangible and welcoming, a beautiful distraction for his dismayed mind. He continued.

“A scalpel mark across here,” he muttered, fingers tracing deft, invisible lines across Dean’s left cheek, following the phantom cuts. “Injuries by a fist, mostly. Humans are very...savage, aren’t they?

“Shame when monsters are preferable to people, huh?”

Dean’s voice was level, up until the tip of Castiel’s thumb ran across his bottom lip. The angel’s head was tilted, engrossed in the images he could see spread out before him, and all he had learned about social norms once again took a reduced sense of priority.

“So many split lips,” he said idly, as if running an internal commentary. “These are harder to stitch back up, you know. Too many nerve endings to just blindly “zap,” as you would say. It’s a bit more meticulous.”

Dean’s heart rate had spiked, and he was staring at Castiel with wide eyes, as though he expected him to vanish. He looked rattled from the intimacy of the touch, but Castiel ignored it, slightly overwhelmed with the debilitating reminder that one day, there would be no part of Dean to touch at all. There was a soft exhale as Castiel traced Dean’s bottom lip, feeling the very faint traces of his own grace, still clinging to the ghosts of these injuries like a possessive, shameless entity. He was comforted by its presence, as though winding enough of his grace through Dean’s body would somehow be able to shield him, a desperate barricade composed of Castiel’s sheer influence and will. It was ridiculous, but Castiel wasn’t above being willing to try.

A secret he would keep from Dean, cautious of the man's insecurity.  

His hand quirked up, his thumb skirting to the opposite edges of Dean’s mouth to trace across his left cheekbone. The injury that glared at him was easy enough to follow, from the corner of Dean’s eye to the bridge of his nose, and a new feeling stirred inside of him. He knew this hurt more than he knew any others, re-lived it for weeks as he traveled buses and Biggersons’ with nothing but contrition and purpose for company. He could see the full extent of the damage now: the broken nose, the fractured jaw, the blood. His hands still feel slick with it.

“Hey,” Dean said, and Castiel was jerked back to the present, where only one form of Dean was there to greet him. The skin beneath his fingers was clean now, smooth, but Dean wore the same expression of desperation as he did back then. His hand was on Castiel’s shoulder, weighty and solid, and Cas knew it was warm, he _knew_ it was comfort, even if he couldn’t figure out how to accept it, nor what to do with what was being offered.

Somehow, Dean had figured out what he’d seen.

Maybe, what he had been _looking_ for.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel breathed, and somehow, it meant way more than it did back then. How much he currently means the things he says keep growing, every day, far out of his depth of understanding. The more he means them, the less sense they make, and he was growing terrified of how much more he’ll mean them in a year. In ten. At the _end._

He wasn't afraid of feeling -- not anymore; but he was afraid that he didn't know how to stop.

“Hey, you’ve said that already,” Dean commented back lightly, but his voice is shaken, his resolved cracked. His normally grounded exterior had been broken by something that lingered on Castiel’s face, some semblance of grief that remains bounded by Castiel’s inability to forgive himself. “Besides, I beat the shit out of you too, I’d say we’re even, right?”

“I suppose we are,” Castiel replied softly, with no real promise behind it. He’s too distraught by the mental image of Dean on his knees, pulling away from him, terrified of more hurt. Begging him not to touch. The disturbed feeling was back in full force, churning around within him like someone had broken a dam, giving freedom to the things he had tried so hard to restrain.

Before he could ponder what Dean’s reaction would be, he’s placing both hands on either side of Dean’s face, if only to feel it whole and smooth beneath his fingers. He had bent reality before, had seen too much and done too little with it, but physically _knowing_ that this unhurt and healthy Dean was truly the one that sat before him was an incessant need that itched at him across his entire vessel.

More than anything, he needed to know that Dean would allow the touch.

“You have too many scars already, Dean,” he said, and it sounded so unlike himself. Less like Jimmy, and more like the voices of whatever had been hiding behind that dam. More like himself, whoever he may be now. “I don’t want to add any more.”

“Cas,” Dean said back, exasperated, concerned. The hand that wasn’t squeezing his shoulder moved to the back of his head, tangling gently in his hair for leverage. Castiel was gripped tight, feeling Dean lean forward until their foreheads touched, resting their weight on one another and pulling them from a spiraling emotion to something a little more grounded.

“You’ve gotten a shit deal since you fell, I’ll give you that,” Dean started, too close to Castiel, too personal. “And part of that is on me. You did the right thing, with Zachariah, but it’s been a bad ride since then. And I dragged you into it. I should have done a better job of helping you pick up the pieces and figure out what was happening. I didn’t realize how bad it was, then. I’m sorry, man.”

Castiel closed his eyes. He regretted none of it, except not knowing that he hadn’t fully adapted before making world-changing decisions. He regretted not being humble. He regretted his damned pride, and how it had staggered him away from help, and away from the light that had altered him.

Dean’s fingers held a little tighter, but he didn’t pull away.

“Cas, if things get fixed… I mean, Heaven gets its mojo back, you get powered up, all’s right with the world. I’m gonna die eventually--”

Hurt pulsed through Castiel, and Dean paused, as though he could feel it.

“...When that happens, will I see you in Heaven? And I mean the real you, not some Stepford Wives bullshit.”

Castiel thought about telling him that soul duty wouldn’t be his area. He thought about explaining the logistical nightmare it would be, trying to contain the Winchesters’ souls without alerting them to their current predicament, a situation they would undoubtedly try to arrogate once informed. He thought about reminding Dean that his own destiny lies in the Empty, an eternal sleep, where he can neither miss Dean, nor hear his prayers.

But those are things an angel would say.

He reached forward blindly, trailing his hand up Dean’s shoulder until it could rest gently on the side of his face, feeling the different textures of hair, of skin, of warmth and chill. The churning in his stomach was tentatively replaced with something bright, the same electrifying affinity and comfort he found the very moment he closed his hands around Dean’s soul.

“I will go where you go, Dean.” He stopped to give a light, almost lucid laugh. It seemed so simple, saying it aloud. “And I’ve gone to much worse places than Heaven for you.”

And when Dean leaned further into him, his fingers tightening on the coat that was draped across Castiel’s shoulders, it solidified his commitment. Something akin to ease relaxed his posture once Dean assured him that he'd still have a home, just relocated, restructured. It seemed almost absurd that anything else even be considered.

No. No, he would spend the rest of eternity in Dean’s heaven, with the soul of the man who saved him, and he would be at peace. He deserved peace. They all did. His final mission would be to ensure that this promise was kept.

He could feel Dean’s stubble against his skin, cheek to cheek as Dean held him harder, closer, trying to convey _something_ that was beyond words, beyond brotherhood. Castiel drenched himself in the feeling, the contentment of being wanted and cherished, the depth of existing for the sole purpose of living these moments. Proximity to Dean had always been grounding, a stabilizing force when the rest of the world left him behind, but being held was an undefinable comfort. Something he could never voice, but rather a sensation that he ached for every time Dean would return to him, wounded and happy, tormented and safe, distant and pleading. 

He just  _needed._ They both needed to give, _relentlessly_ , too afraid to take what was being offered.

The rain outside was dying down, and the sound of piercing daggers had turned to a soft pattering, but Dean only relinquished his grip when they heard the telltale sound of boots trudging along the outside of the barn. He didn’t look Cas in the eyes as he pulled away, but his vision hovered on the corner of Castiel’s mouth, considerations being chewed over the same way they had dozens of times before.

And maybe one day, Castiel would push for more. He would take another chance like he did today, and wait for Dean to meet him halfway, to accept what was being offered. But for now, he was content to feel Dean’s hand across his lower back as they stood, warm and guiding. Promising. He was content to feel that bright, defiant soul next to him, scarred in places Castiel couldn't heal, but all the more luminous for it.

For now, he was content to be at Dean Winchester’s side; proud to be the angel that saved Dean from Hell, and proud to be the angel that Dean saved from Heaven.

Proud to be his, in whatever way Dean decided he needed.


End file.
